


Shut Up, Gorgeous

by PoppyAlexander



Series: Bleed So Pretty: A Collection of Fight!lock Stories [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood, Caretaking, Dirty Talk, Doctor John, Face Punching, Fight Club - Freeform, Fight!lock, Fighting Kink, If Only You'd Let Me, Injured Sherlock, Let's Forget The Feelings And Just Enjoy the Porn, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Punching, Sherlock Kink Meme, Terrifying Possibility of Feelings, caretaking mixed with dirty talk and mutual masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-05-12
Packaged: 2018-01-24 10:44:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1602089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John are at it again, underground-fight-club stylee, but an unfortunate accident leads them back to Baker Street where John will have to keep a vigil throughout the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shut Up, Gorgeous

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Заткнись, красавчик](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3634086) by [ph_craftlove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ph_craftlove/pseuds/ph_craftlove)
  * Inspired by [Blind Date](https://archiveofourown.org/works/854769) by [SwissMiss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/pseuds/SwissMiss). 



> There is less fighting in this story than in my other AU/Fight Club Fight!lock stories. But it's the same johnlock we find in "Cutmen" and "Body and Blood." More fighting next go-round, I promise.
> 
> I reserve the "Explicit" rating for kink/non-con/triggers and use the "Mature" rating for even graphic descriptions of sex between consenting adults. This story is full of dirty words. And ideas. And actions.
> 
> I submitted a writing prompt to the BBC Sherlock Kink Meme over a month ago, and it was even seconded!, but so far no one has filled it. So I went ahead and filled it myself! (though I am still dying for other people's stories based on this prompt), The prompt was as follows:
> 
> +++"Came across a story the other day ("Blind Date" by SwissMiss) which completely undid me with use of the phrase "If you'd let me." Boundaries are set by one party--"We can do this but not that."--and while the other party respects the boundaries, dirty talk runs rampant, "If only you'd let me, I'd. . ." So, a lot of dirty talk."+++
> 
> http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21766.html?thread=130598406#t130598406

In a mostly-empty warehouse smelling vaguely of car tires and the sea, John and Sherlock were just over eight minutes into a ten-minute fight, sweat-soaked, bloody (a steady stream from somewhere in Sherlock’s hairline; John spitting gobs every now and then from a tooth hanging on for dear life). The hideously garish fluorescent lighting erased harsh lines but gave their skin the refrigerated hue of the severely hypoxic. The crowd of men around the chalk-drawn ring was going utterly mental; the match was epic, full of seemingly endless turnabouts, each of them the clear winner for three-quarters of a minute or so before the other roared back to gain the upper hand.

John was seeing red, and not only because of the blood in his eye, growing narrower by the minute as the tissue swelled around it and turned purple-black. His knees planted on either side of Sherlock’s chest, he swung widely—thudding left, jabbing right, lazy but effective left again—at Sherlock’s face, trying to knock off his smarmy, self-satisfied half-smile. See how cute he looked with half his teeth broken.

“More, please,” Sherlock intoned, and John let out a furious roar, leaning down into Sherlock’s face so fat drops of spit and sweat rained down on the knife-edges of his cheeks and jaw. Sherlock merely closed his eyes and looked exultant, almost placid, blood running down his forehead, across his throbbing temple, into the whorls of his ear. John got to his feet, took a half-step backwards, fists squared up in front of his heaving chest.

“Come on!” he shouted, and the crowd answered him back with a many-voiced, guttural growl that nearly deafened him. Sherlock rolled languidly onto his side, still mildly smiling. John kicked him, hard and quick, below his ribs. “Get the fuck up!”

John’s feet were planted firmly, his shoulders rolling vaguely in preparation to swing, or to defend. Sherlock rising to stand was like scaffolding being assembled in slow motion, all narrow lengths and right angles snapping into place. Once he was fully upright, he swept both palms up the sides of his face, up over his forehead, pushing his hair back and away; his eyes closed momentarily. John shuffled forward, drove an uppercut into Sherlock’s solar plexus, eliciting a thick grunt from Sherlock and nearly doubling him over. John yanked his fist back to take another swing, Sherlock stutter-stepped backward, and his bare foot skidded crazily on some unknown substance—a small pool of blood, or sweat, or rainwater from the leaking roof—and all at once he went down backward, hard, unable to turn in time or break his fall. The back of his head hit the damp cement floor with a sickening thud. He did not get up.

The whistle blew. Someone reached for John’s wrist, trying to raise his hand in victory, but John shook it off, crashed to his knees beside Sherlock’s utterly motionless body. John swiped his palms up and down the front of his jeans, drying the sweat there, then reached across Sherlock, tucked one hand under his bare shoulder and one under his head, began to roll Sherlock toward himself, onto his side. John looked up, and to the first man who met his gaze, shouted, “You—roll his hips up. Get him on his side.” The man blinked, then again. “I’m a doctor, I know what I’m doing,” John scolded, and motioned with his head toward the lower half of Sherlock’s body. The dumbfounded man hesitantly obeyed, using one hand and one shin to nudge Sherlock’s lower half up and over.

John leaned across Sherlock, examined the back of his head. No open wound. He ran the flat of his fingers across Sherlock’s scalp; there was already a lump about the size of an egg.

The crowd of men had dissipated, turned away, and was reassembling about ten yards off, drawing a new ring on the floor, calling out the pseudonyms for the next pair of fighters. Most were fairly certain Sherlock was not dead. Not a single one would have cared if he were.

John leaned his face close to Sherlock’s, firmly patted his cheek. “Oi!” he said loudly. “Wake up. What’s your name?” He thought he saw Sherlock’s eyelids fluttering, as if he were struggling to open them. “Wake up now, yeah? Tell me your name.”

Sherlock’s face changed from still and expressionless as he squinted and blinked, his mouth coming open and a quiet groan rolling out. John tipped his ear down to Sherlock’s mouth. “That’s it. Now tell me your name,” he demanded again.

Sherlock’s voice was a rumbling whisper. “We’re not supposed to say. But I think you called me ‘Gorgeous,’ last time we met, Dr Watson.”

John sat back on his heels. Sherlock grimaced and reached for the back of his head.

“Don’t get up too fast,” John warned. “You’re probably concussed. Do you remember what happened?”

“You punched me in the gut,” Sherlock said, beginning to sit up despite John’s warning. John put a hand on his elbow to steady him but Sherlock shook it off. “I imagine you followed up with a headshot and knocked me out.”

“Not quite that elegant,” John said grimly. “Dizzy?”

Sherlock sat forward with his elbows on his knees, supporting his aching head in his hands. “No, it’s just pounding.”

“Who’s the prime minister?” John asked, testing.

“That one that was buggering my brother,” Sherlock said thoughtfully. “I only know him as ‘Sillybritches.’”

John snorted. “Much more information than is required.” He hopped to his feet, offered Sherlock a hand up. The crowd behind them let out a collective groan as one of the fighters spat a tooth onto the floor. Sherlock and John gripped each other’s wrists and Sherlock somewhat carefully got his feet under him. “Still think you’ve probably got a concussion. We’ll get a taxi. I’ll come stay at yours tonight and keep an eye on you.” John watched carefully that Sherlock wasn’t swaying or unsteady, then stepped away to where they’d stashed their shoes and shirts, began to gather them up.

“Not necessary, nurse,” Sherlock muttered, waving his hand.

“Absolutely necessary,” John corrected. “People die from falls like you just had.”

“People die from fights like we just had,” Sherlock challenged.

John pursed his lips. “Look, either I come stay with you, or I drop you at Emergency and let them set you up on a gurney in a fluorescent-lit corridor and come bother you with boring questions every hour for the rest of the night.” John passed Sherlock his things, started to step into his own trainers. “Up to you.” John’s tone brooked no argument. Sherlock looked wildly annoyed and huffed a dramatic sigh out his nose.

“Fine.”

*

Sherlock was stretched out on his bed, with the sheet pulled up to his waist and his head resting on a bag of frozen organ meats (wrapped in a towel to prevent unfortunate stains on the pillowslip). John had dragged in a kitchen chair and was sitting at his bedside, feet in his trainers parallel and flat against the floor, never-buttoned shirtfront exposing his chest. He slid his palm behind Sherlock’s neck and helped him raise his head, ran his fingertips across the bump at the back.

“Seems to be going down a bit,” he said. “That’s a good sign.” He gingerly lowered Sherlock’s head, rose to his feet and stood over him. “Close your eyes.” Sherlock rolled them extravagantly, but then did as he was told. After about ten seconds, John said, “Now open. Good. Pupils are equal and reacting properly. Do you know where you are?”

“Naked in my bed, but for some reason I cannot discern, your mouth isn’t wrapped gratefully around my prick. I’m very confused; you may be right about the concussion.” He reached for the back of John’s head, tried to push it southward. John ducked and rolled out of his grasp.

“Much as I’d like to say otherwise, I can’t let you exert yourself.”

“Don’t be a doctor. It’s insufferably boring.”

“It’s what you need at the moment.”

“I don’t want what I need,” Sherlock intoned, blasé. “I want what I want.”

John grasped the back of his own neck, kneaded it, rolled his head slowly from right to left. He exhaled frustration.

“The light is killing me,” Sherlock complained then, and illustrated his discomfort by closing his eyes and turning his head away from the bedside lamp. John crossed the room to a bureau, clicked on a small, dusty lamp with a thick, amber-glass shade; it feebly illuminated the thick layer of dust on the bureau-top, but not much else. He returned to Sherlock’s bedside and switched off the lamp there.

“Better?”

Sherlock hummed. John resumed his seat on the kitchen chair.

“So—what?—you’re just going to sit here looking at me all night?” Sherlock demanded, sounding like a petulant pre-teen.

“Essentially.”

“Unacceptable.”

John huffed out a quick, harsh laugh. “Doctor’s orders. You may as well go to sleep; I’ll wake you every couple of hours to make sure you still remember Prime Minister Sillybritches.”

“She’s a mad bitch.” A pause. “At least let me wank you off.”

John sucked in his breath. “Tempting,” he said, and his voice was a half-step lower than usual. “Very tempting. But no. I can’t let you do anything. . .” John noticed Sherlock’s hand moving beneath the edge of his sheet, a lazy, rhythmic stroking. “Strenuous,” John finished. He moistened his lips with his tongue, felt his cock stirring to rapid attention behind the fly of his jeans. More gravel in his voice, just above a whisper now. “You should really stop that.”

Sherlock let out series of quiet but urgent little grunts, his hand still gliding languidly beneath the bedsheet. “If only you’d let me,” he murmured, “I’d be straddling your lap right now.”

John swallowed hard. His mouth still tasted salty and metallic, though the tissue around the loose tooth was starting to scab. He shifted his hips forward a bit, but kept his arms crossed in front of his chest.

“I’d bite down hard on your neck,” Sherlock continued quietly, in no hurry, almost matter-of-fact. “Press my teeth against that cable of trapezius muscle, make you moan. Because it would hurt.”

John inhaled sharply.

“If you’d let me, I’d take your fingers in my mouth and lick them all over, and suck them. And bite them. Then I’d wrap them around my cock and fuck your hand.” Sherlock’s voice was like a distant rumble of thunder, barely above a whisper. “I like the calluses on your palm, at the base of your fingers.” Sherlock let out an indulgent moan, and his hand beneath the sheet made a swift, jagged movement; the sheet caught on his knuckles, rode his hand downward until his pelvis was uncovered. His prick was heavy and dark pink in his pale hand.

“Jesus,” John muttered, his breath catching.

“I’d straddle you so you could reach underneath,” Sherlock intoned, “Put your fingers inside me, push hard, make it hurt.” He let out a sobbing little cry, illustrating his point.

John shifted his posture again, seeking friction or relief for his aching cock, painfully full and straining inside his jeans. His mouth was dry as he rasped out, “You shouldn’t exert yourself.”

“I’d like to exert myself all over your face,” Sherlock replied evenly, which drew from John’s throat a tone of thrilled frustration. Sherlock raised his hand to his mouth, made a show of licking his index finger slowly, lasciviously, from base to tip. “I usually don’t fight the same man twice.” His tongue slid along the length of his middle finger. “Let alone three times.” He moistened his ring finger.

John whimpered, watching Sherlock’s heavily-wet tongue stroking his long fingers one after the next.

“But you keep coming back,” Sherlock went on, and stuck his pinky fully in his mouth before dragging it out again, glistening with saliva. “And I keep taking you on.”

John offered darkly, “Must be we’re in love.”

Sherlock let out a grim, bored-sounding hum, then licked his thumb, circled the tip with the point of his tongue. He dragged his flattened tongue in a lazy figure-eight across his palm, then resumed stroking his cock, his wrist twisting, palm circling the crown, gathering a thick bead of pre-cum to mix with the spit slicking his hand, then sliding down to the base again before resuming his languid rhythm.

“If only you’d let me,” he said quietly, “I’d get up off this bed,  kneel down between your thighs and press my open mouth against your fly so you could feel the heat of my breath on you.” John’s eyes drifted closed for a moment but he quickly reopened them to stare at Sherlock’s slender, knobby hand tugging lazily at his cock. “You’re sure you can’t discharge me, Doctor?”

“You don’t take chances with head injuries,” John muttered. “And anyway, don’t you need a properly working brain for your detective work?”

Sherlock’s hand skidded across the head of his cock then, and he sucked in his breath; John’s resistance was wearing thinner by the minute and he couldn’t keep himself from sliding his hand roughly over the fabric of his jeans.

“Don’t worry about my brain,” Sherlock asserted, and turned his head a bit, his gaze resting on John’s hand as it worked against his jeans’ front.  He changed the subject. “I never did get a good look at your cock last time.”

“You felt it though,” John muttered. “Probably for a long time afterward.”

“Take it out; I want to see it,” Sherlock demanded. “If only you’d let me, I’d open your zip myself, slide my hand inside your trousers and wrap my fingers around you—“ Sherlock lowered his right hand to join the left, entwined his fingers and slid both hands up and down his length with deliberate slowness. “—like this.” John gasped at the sight, reached for his fly and did as he was told, opening his trousers and shifting them down to free the thick, heavy length of his cock.

Sherlock sounded pleased as he let go a low, “Ooh.” John’s cock twitched in response.

“If only you’d let me,” Sherlock offered, eyes closing momentarily as he shifted the tempo of his stroking. “I’d lick the head of your cock all around, slide my mouth down around you.”

“You’d choke on it,” John uttered, and spit hurriedly into his palm, began to pull.

“Probably at first,” Sherlock allowed. “If you’d let me, I’d take you down my throat, there on my knees for you. I’d reach up and pinch you all over your chest, leave my marks on you.”

“Yes. . .” John slid his hips forward on his chair, let his head rock back on his neck, closed his eyes.

“If you’d let me, I’d twist your nipple until you shouted for me to stop.”

“I never would,” John huffed out, and lowered his gaze again, to find Sherlock had raised his knees off the mattress, let his legs fall open, was working one hand down beneath his balls, pushing his fingers against—or into—his opening.

“Such a hard man,” Sherlock replied, mocking. “So brave. I know it hurt when I punched you and gave you that bloody eye you’re sporting.”

“I don’t remember,” John asserted, and lifted his hand to his mouth to lick his palm, the flats of his fingers, then resumed jerking himself.

“Liar,” Sherlock challenged. He sucked in a quick gulp of air and held it, his eyes squinting tightly closed. The rhythm of his two hands echoed each other, one pushing into his ass (John was sure now), the other gliding up his cock to the dripping tip, backing his fingers partway out, tugging down his length so his foreskin rocked back, revealing more of the swollen, dusky-red crown of his cock.

“Gorgeous.” The word sailed out on a low huff of breath from John, whose hips twitched urgently, pressing his cock up to meet his own sliding hand.

“Wish it was your cock inside me instead of my fingers,” Sherlock murmured in reply. “If you’d let me out of this bed, I’d get your cock so dripping wet with my mouth. . .”

“Fuck’s sake—“ John muttered, scolding himself.

“Frustrating, isn’t it,” Sherlock challenged in a ragged whisper. “The good doctor orders the patient to bed, but another part of you is just dying to smash me right in my dirty mouth.”

“You said that right.” John spit into his palm again, ran his tongue roughly across his fingers, then resumed a harsh, staccato stroking.

“I like to feel your fist crashing into me,” Sherlock said, but he was beginning to stammer around the words, his forehead and upper lip sheened with sweat, his hands working more urgently. “And I like to knock you down and—“ His breath hitched. “And straddle your chest and punch the—“ He gasped. “—everloving piss out of you.”

John groaned, shifted his hips.

“If only you’d let me. . . _Doctor_.” Sherlock’s voice dripped acid sarcasm around the word. “I’d roll over right now and hold my ass open for you to fuck me with that—“ He made a guttural sound, rising from his chest and rumbling past his throat. “huge fucking cock of yours.”

“Yesss. . .” John hissed, and felt the tense coil of his orgasm beginning to unwind, deep in his pelvis. He contracted the ring of his fingers and thumb, thrust up into it, a pale imitation of the impossibly tight heat of Sherlock’s body.

“It hurts when you fuck me,” Sherlock muttered then, and his hand was sliding furiously up and down his length now, his grip light and loose but impossibly urgent. His full lips were flush with a surge of blood to his face, the skin around his eyes looking bruised even where it wasn’t. “I like it,” he stuttered out. “I like how it hurts.”

That did John in, and his back curled, rolling his chest forward as his orgasm fired through him like a ricocheting gunshot. Hot streaks of cream-coloured fluid pulsed out of him onto the floor, the toes of his trainers, the pages of a nearby book left lying open, its spine broken. John let out a gratified shout as he came, and barely heard Sherlock’s hisses of encouragement, barely registered the fact of Sherlock’s wide-open eyes staring at his surging cock, his spurting cum.

John collapsed back against the chair, breath heaving, so undone he’d nearly forgotten about Sherlock still working himself toward his own orgasm just a few feet away, until he heard the slurry, lust-drunk baritone voice enunciate, “If only you’d let me, I’d get down and lick your cum right off your shoes.” John rolled his head sideways in time to see Sherlock’s cock pumping out a fountain of viscous fluid, spilling it over his pale hand. Sherlock turned his head away so his face was hidden from John’s view, but John could see the tendons straining in his neck, the beat of his pulse at the side of his throat, his adam’s apple jumping as he swallowed hard against a deep, velvety groan of satisfaction.

John felt himself reassembling, shifted his gaze about the room until it found a nearby pile of Sherlock’s discarded clothes (he must not care much for money to treat his posh gear so carelessly, John thought), and he reached for a handful of fabric, wiped his sticky hands, his still-oozing cock, then tossed what he now knew to be a shirt—buttons caught his knuckles as he scrubbed—onto the bed beside Sherlock, who lazily gathered it and cleaned himself up. He tossed the shirt back to the floor, on the other side of the bed.

John tucked himself back into his jeans, did up the button and the zip, smoothed his fingers through his hair and cleared his throat.

“So now’s the part where I ask you again if you know who and where you are,” he offered, and rose to stand. He could not, however, immediately bring himself to check for Sherlock’s pupil dilation and reaction, as it would require looking him in the eye—even clinically, it was too much, too soon; John felt unsteady though he couldn’t pin the reason why. For the moment, John busied himself sliding one hand under Sherlock’s neck to raise his head and feel under his hair for the bump he’d sustained.

“I’m in my flat,” Sherlock said in a tone emphasizing the tediousness of John’s questions—even of his concern. “221B Baker Street, first floor. Mrs Hudson is my busybody landlady,” he rattled on, “and there’s an empty bedroom upstairs you should be staying in when you come to London for your week each month because it’s certain to be cheaper than whatever you’ve been renting elsewhere.”

John froze momentarily, one hand supporting Sherlock’s head, the other skimming through his thick curls of dark hair—the hair, the clothes, god Sherlock was as vain as any woman John had ever met—feeling for the bump Sherlock had gotten by accident, smack in the middle of a jolly good ten minutes of mutually-consented-to, hand to hand violence. Ironic. John cleared his throat again.

“And who’s the prime minister?” he asked, deflecting.

“Do you mean who holds the title, or who actually has the power?” Sherlock volleyed back. John slid the towel-wrapped bag of now mostly-defrosted organ meats out from under Sherlock’s head, lowered him back onto the pillow.

“This is no longer of use. What shall I--?” John kept the bag slightly away from his body, holding his breath in case of a smell.

“Back in the freezer for now,” Sherlock replied. “Tomorrow I’ll start a new experiment tracking its decomposition.”

“And that’s the sort of thing you normally do? Here in your flat?” John asked, his nose wrinkling. The flat was a disaster—messy piles of god-knew-what everywhere, it just had to be a fire hazard, and that science lab set-up in the kitchen, that couldn’t possibly be sanitary for the science _or_ the kitchen.

Sherlock hummed in a way that was vaguely affirmative, but also dismissive, and reached down to draw the bedsheet back up, covering him nearly to his chest.

“A part-time live-in doctor would be quite handy for someone in my line of work.”

“And with your hobbies,” John added, and stepped quickly out of the room with the bag of meat. When he returned, Sherlock’s eyes were half-closed, his face placid, nearing sleep.

“I could make it worth your while,” Sherlock murmured; his plush mouth curved into a slight, wicked smile as he added, “If only you’d let me.”

John shook his head, leaned back in the chair and crossed one ankle over the other, trying to find a comfortable posture. He glanced at his watch to calculate the next time he’d need to wake Sherlock and ask him who the bloody hell he was, the famous detective with the shit website, the gangly grappler in the dank basement taking on all comers, the sexy bloody _beast_ getting what he wanted from John before John had time to make a conscious decision to consent. “Shut up, gorgeous,” John said finally, “Or I’ll punch you right in your dirty, pretty mouth.”

Sherlock murmured, “Oh, but you do make promises,” and yawned, and fell asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> fuckyeahfightlock.tumblr.com for fight-y goodness and related bloodsport.  
> PoppyAlexander-fic.tumblr.com for other fic updates and things that catch my fancy.


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